Classic Poem

The fire advances along the log
Of the tree we felled
That time O!--
Which bloomed and bore striped apples by the peck
Till its last hour of bearing knelled.

The fork that first my hand would reach
And then my foot
That time O!--
In climbings upward inch by inch, lies now
Sawn, sapless, darkening with soot.

Where the bark chars is where, one year,
It was pruned, and bled--
That time O!--
Then overgrew the wound. But now, at last,
Its growings all have stagnated.

My fellow-climber rises dim
From her chilly grave--
That time O!
Just as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,
Laughing, her young brown hand awave.